


Traditional Humanity

by Yuki1014o



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Alt-Right Beliefs, Alternate Universe - Human, Antisemitism, Child Neglect, Depression, Ethnonationalism, Gen, Homophobia, Islamophobia, M/M, Maybe The Real Ethnostate Was The Diverse Friends We Made Along The Way, Misgendering, Non-Explicit Sex, Racism, Radicalization & Deradicalization, Sexism, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts, Transphobia, human au but using ideology names, very much inspired by "Ethnostate Ethnostate || International Nationalism || Global Anti-Globalism"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29706702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: Sixteen when he decides he hates his mother, nineteen when the jokes stop being jokes, twenty when he considers murder-suicide, twenty when he meets Ancap, twenty one when he meets the nationalists, twenty three when—In other words: he grows up.
Relationships: Homonationalism/White Identitarian | Nazi (Centricide), White Identitarian | Nazi & International League of Nationalists (Centricide), platonically - Relationship
Comments: 48
Kudos: 43





	1. Teen Idle

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE READ:** I really do mean not to take the tags lightly. Im not talking about 'there was an insensitive joke' or 'some stuff is implied and could be interpreted like this..' or whatever. No, I really mean it.
> 
> Also, I need to clarify the purpose of this project. Or rather, what it _isn't_ trying to do. This fanfic is not trying to 1. be an actual proper really great and meaningful commentary on the alt-right. 2. be a very well handled _anything_.  
> there is some stuff it tries to say, but I won't state the theming out-right because that's...one does not state the themes of a work in an author's note. I really just ended up making this because I wanted to, and in the end what's the worst I can do? Handle things badly and then learn from the occasion? Yeah. This is also partially a vent fic. My mental health has been...so-so. This might make it sound like I'm not accepting criticism, but that isn't true at all. If anyone has constructive criticism then I don't mind hearing it at all, I would just ask that it be saved until after the last chapter is out & that everyone reads this with this A/N in mind. 
> 
> That said: I endorse literally none of these beliefs and do not mean to romanticize them in the slightest. I'm a progressive/moderate progressive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter title is named after a song

**Eight.**

“Hey,” Nazi says, kicking his legs in the air and pressing a hand onto the bench’s warm plastic wood. He then immediate cringes, because his hands are sticky with melted ice cream and that’s _messy_. “Why doesn’t...”

Matt (not Dad, not quite, because he’s still new and still strange and Mom has only been dating him for seven months— _God_ Nazi hopes she marries him—) crouches down and smiles opening. “Yeah?”

“Ah just,” Nazi doesn’t meet the other’s eyes, feels something hot and embarrassed flush over his face, because it’s a stupid fucking question, and everyone knows what happens when you ask stupid questions. But Matt is still looking at him, and he has never yelled at him before. “Just...why doesn’t Mom ever do this?”

The ice cream. The park. The swings. The hot-summer days and lemonade.

Matt’s face does something weird that Nazi can’t quite read. “It’s...complicated. She’s not doing her job as a mother, as a _woman_.”

“Oh,” says Nazi, although he’s not sure he really understands. Mom works just fine. “Yeah. Okay.”

Not-Dad sighs, so quiet Nazi can barely hear it. He slips onto the bench and bites down the rest of his ice cream, which Nazi thinks should really be some sort of crime. “Want to know a secret, James?”

Nazi blinks at him. “What kind?”

Matt smiles smally, and sunlight reflects through the honeyed edges of his hair. “The good kind.”

“Sure.”

“Just between us...” Matt envelops Nazi’s whole free hand in his. What a large hand. It’s callused. The hand of a real man. “I’m going to propose to your mother. Then you’ll have me around all the time.”

 _Oh_ , Nazi thinks, chest bubbling up with something light and foamy, like the fizz of a beer bottle. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Matt promises, “and it’ll be good.”

 **Eleven** **.**

Nazi loses the goddamn game, and has to keep himself back from hitting his keyboard and letting loose a train of swears. He’s not usually so easily set off. He _isn’t_. But—

“I ONLY MARRIED YOU FOR THE GODDAMN KID!”

“OH SO _NOW_ IT’S ABO—”

Nazi turns the volume up so high that the sound coming through his headphones kind of actually hurts his ears. If he really concentrates, he can still hear their argument. He doesn't try to concentrate. God, his fucking head hurts. Can he play another game like this? No. Probably not. He closes the program and flops onto his bed which is only a few steps away. The headphone cord is connected to his phone. He scrolls through anime OPs and clicks a random playlist.

At some point, he stops really paying attention to the music in favor of watching the space between the door and his floor. Bright yellow light shines through from the other side and spills over his floor.

They should just fucking get divorced already.

(Nazi falls asleep like that. When he wakes up in the morning to Mom shouting him awake, his ears are ringing and his muscles are sore.)

**Elevan.**

Matt and Mom get divorced in June. Matt doesn’t manage to acquire custody. Mom accuses him of domestic abuse. He isn’t allowed to visit. Nazi says nothing.

**Fourteen.**

Somehow, some small splinter of glass sticks itself into Nazi’s foot and it gets fucking _painful_. He only notices once skin has grown over and bizarre infections and growths start to set in. Every morning, when he wakes up, the foot feels numb aching, but three steps away from bed and the whole thing is pulsing with pain that he has to grit his teeth through. It hurts so bad even when he’s sitting down trying to concentrate through class. It only starts to numb back down after lunch, and is only dully hurting by evening, but all that progress erases overnight.

He mentions it to Mom.

She says she’ll check it out and fix it.

She doesn’t.

Instead, Nazi hesitantly makes a post to /adv/. Someone tells him to do it himself. So Nazi sucks it up, sits down on the cold bathroom floor with a sharp nail clipper, and tries to cut through the skin that’s grown over, and through the tender sensitive infected areas, and through the weird growths (how does _one splinter_ cause so much goddamn _havoc?_ ) the whole thing pulses and aches and _hurts_ when he prods and messes with it. Where even is the glass? He can’t—can’t find it in the pink and red. He pokes the area again to locate the sting and grits his teeth and blinks back tears. Boys don’t cry.

Boys don’t cry, even if his mom doesn’t care enough to help ( _although, in fairness, he hasn’t told her how bad it is, so maybe maybe maybe if she knew—_ ) even if his stupid pointless grades are going down, even if—

even if it hurts.

 **Fifteen**.

Claire is pretty, has good grades, and once, during lunch, she sat with him and complained about class. Nazi likes her, and wants to spend more time with her, and cradles the idea of _dating_ her.

It takes four months of glancing at her from across the room and sometimes cross referencing notes during lunch for him to work up to courage to actually, actually—

“ _You?_ ” Claire asks, and looks somewhere between amused and sick and awkward. Nazi’s stomach twists. “No I—James you’re um...not really...I don’t even like you that much as a friend. And you’re really short.”

The rejection strings like a slap to the face, and Nazi’s skin burns with shame and embarrassment and mortification. She doesn't even like him as a friend. He’s too short. And too ugly, and too stupid, and too socially inept. Of course he is. But couldn’t she have said it nicer? Couldn’t—

“Oh,” he manages, “sorry for calling you here. I—uh—I have something at home. Sorry. See you.”

She waves awkwardly and he walks away feeling stupid and stinging and doesn’t go home. Instead, he walks around town aimlessly and sits on some rock beneath some bridge and doesn’t cry. He throws rocks at the slow moving water. He checks his phone. He checks 4chan and mindlessly reads through Nichijou shitposting. He should watch it when he gets home. Will animefreak be down again?

The screen blurs.

He glares at the dark river water, reflecting only a bit of clouded moonlight. Doesn’t cry. What the hell. It’s not like anything really bad even happened. She just...rejected him...really badly. That was low of her. She should have been nicer. She should have said yes. She was supposed to say yes, and kiss his cheek, and tell him she liked him too. It’s not fucking _fair_.

He should head home, soon. It’s getting really late. There’s a lot of homework to do.

He doesn't head home. He stays beneath the bridge, on a rock, with sand getting into his shoes. It’s not like staying out is that dangerous anything. it’s a small town in the middle of no where. His house is only thirty minutes walk away from here and there’s barely and traffic this late at night. The cold stone bites at his numb fingers.

His phone rings. Rings again. He picks up.

“James?”

“...Yeah?”

A beat. Silence on the other end. His stomach churns.

“WHERE THE—” Nazi winces and pulls it away from his head, “—FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN!? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT HOUR IT IS!? I’VE BEEN WAITING THE WHOLE TIME FOR YOU TO COME OUT OF YOUR GARBAGE ROOM BUT APPARENTLY YOU WEREN'T EVEN _HOME!_ ”

He thinks he is going to cry. He will not cry. “Sorry.”

“SORRY!?” Mom shouts, “You’re _SORRY?_ You better be! Did you at least pick up groceries? And condoms?”

“No,” he mutters. He doesn’t like going on shopping trips. People assume he’s a fag. He isn’t a fag.

“Ugh,” she groans, across the line. “Whatever. Just get home. You have twenty minutes. Dinner’s on the stove.”

Probably microwave food. Why won’t she just do her goddamn job and cook properly? “Yeah, o—”

The line goes dead.

 **Sixteen**.

There’s no one he can talk to for advice. He has no father. So he...

He stops trying to talk with people, and he avoids girls whenever they come close. He...peeks around the web a bit more. A lot more. He never really left the anime boards much bar occasionally posting on /adv/. But he just—just wants to vent his feelings, and by now he’s getting _good_ with the internet, and following links isn’t too hard. If he can find pirating sites than he can find the right type of forum.

They call themselves incels. Involuntary celebrates. Now—Nazi isn’t particularly interested in sex, exactly. Or, well, he thinks it would be interesting, and he’d like to try it with a girl sometime, but more he just—just wants that companionship, and light kisses, and _then_ maybe something else. Long down the line. Sex after marriage and all. He also doesn't agree with all the posts about hitting woman and hurting them but...

He stays anyway. Because these people, they understand how stinging the rejection was, and they understand the isolation, and they understand that every other guy in class has friends and he doesn't. Whenever he posts, he gets people replying that they understand and it really does suck and, woman, right?

 _Woman_.

He...doesn’t quite make friends on the forums, but he makes acquaintances. He sees the same people over and over and isn’t that fun? It’s akin to the 4chan anime community except about relationships.

_> got rejected, found incel forums, pretty fun_

_> oh damn same_

_ >lmao incel? kill yourself  
>tranny moment  
>???  
>reference to tranny suicide rate [picture]  
>oooohh makes sense_

**Sixteen.**

“What?” he asks, feeling numb. “Mom you _what?_ ”

She clips her nails. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“You can’t just—”

“It’s not like I sold your computer!”

Nazi’s shock needles with the beginnings of bone-deep anger that edges on loathing. “But you can’t just _sell my games_ when I’m at school! You didn’t even _tell me!_ We could’ve worked something out or I could’ve gotten a job for the extra money or—”

Mom’s jaw clenches and she sets the nail clipper aside, none too gently. “I’ve been telling you to get a job for _months!_ But you’re too addicted to your goddamn GAMES that—”

“What do you even need the money for!?”

He pauses, looks away. His stomach churns.

“We’re moving,” she says. “Next spring, I think.”

Nazi’s thoughts grinds to a halt and slow. White noise. _Moving?_ Away from the only town he’s ever known? Away from home? He _likes_ home. He likes the green streets and surrounding hills and tall trees, the bridges that run over mostly-clean water, the little places between buildings that he’s found where he can get out of the house and breathe. He likes home.

Breathe in, breathe out. Cigarette smoke and mildew.

“But we can’t just _go_.”

“The city has jobs,” Mom says, voice edged. “It’s really hard for a woman to make it out in the world you know! People just don’t treat us the same. Do you really want us to stay poor?”

 _It’s not that you’re a woman it’s that you’re a_ bitch, Nazi thinks, but guilt stings through the anger anyway. “...No.”

“Good. Then stop complaining.”

He nods and goes back to his room. It still smells like mildew, but less like cigarettes. His games are gone. He curls into his blankets and doesn’t bother with booting up his computer or turning on the lights. Instead, he loads up a board on his phone.

_My mom sold my games and didn’t even tell me. Apparently we’re moving into a city. A CITY. Full of smog and pollution and crime and whatever else. And I don’t even have my GAMES. And maybe she could’ve actually made enough money here if she didn’t blame all her fucking problems on MEN. Like what the fuck? I want to die._

_> Fuck her. She has no right to take away your property, regardless of whether u bought it. Honestly :/// my parents did the same thing although it was cause of ‘vIdEo gAmEs cAuSE vIoLeNce’_

_> “I want to die” tranny moment_

_> City? Yeah asphalt culture is shit. Everyone is mixing and mingling and there’s no room for a strong family structure. They’re basically the epitome of everything corrupting the west. There’s no community or solidarity or decency. They’re full of whores and marxist propaganda. All the mixed ethnicities means a lot of violence. You’ll need to keep your own personal identity strong. Good luck. :)_

_> (not op) any suggestions for how? Like, youtube channels or sites or podcasts or something to make sure I keep myself strong. I’m also moving into the city soon_

**Seventeen.**

They move to the city. He hates it. He enrolls in a new school. He hates it.

**Seventeen.**

There’s a...tranny, in his class. She, he—they claim to be a man. But they don’t look it and don’t act it and most importantly, _aren’t_. They’re a girl, that’s just how this works. It’s biology. Anything is actual delusion. She’s tricked herself into thinking she’s a man. Been lied to. Are they suicidal, too? Like in the memes?

“James?” They ask, poking his arm. “C’mon, focus. We only have thirty minutes left.”

He nods. Tries to focus on the math. It’s lunch. The have to finish this short partner project before class. He keeps sneaking glances at them. She has breasts, even if they’re bound close to her chest and hidden beneath thick clothing.

“Hey,” they say, hunching in on themself just a little, “why are you staring at me?”

“You aren’t a guy,” Nazi blurts, stupidly, impulsively, and he watches with some horror as they full-body flinch and their whole face starts to screw up into a scowl.

“And you can fuck off! I’ll finish the project myself.”

“I’m just saying what’s true!” Nazi defends, self-consciousness flaring, position hardening. “If you don’t have a dick then you aren’t a man! It’s basic biology!”

She hesitates only a moment before slapping him. His cheeks stings. It all _stings_. Fuck. And he can’t even slap her back. If he slaps her back, he’s going to be called an abuser and misogynist and probably going to be suspended. Just for telling some delusional girl that she’s a girl. She’s probably a dyke that tricked herself into thinking she’s a man in order to feel straight.

Fuck this. Fuck all this bullshit.

**Seventeen.**

He starts listening to some people. They talk about internet culture. They talk about self-improvment. They talk about the worth of a father, and a boy, and a man. They talk about ethnicity and race and roots and _history_. Heritage. They make sense. It makes sense. They talk about a lot of things, and, with them, Nazi feels his interest in politics grow. For the first time, he goes on /pol/.

Now, he doesn’t take anything _too_ seriously, of course, because it’s _4chan_ , and anyone that takes anything online seriously is an actual idiot. Of _course_ there are people making shitty offensive jokes and imitating fascists. One has got to combat the over-sensitive Marxist tumblr mob somehow, after all, but there are some actually good points, mixed in with all the intentional offensiveness.

He starts studying people’s features at school more closely. The color of their skin, the thickness of their hair, the shape of their eyes, the size of their nose.

He quickly looks away and chides himself. Presses his nails into his palms. Chides himself for chiding himself. Why should he police his own thoughts? It’s not like he’s thinking anything bad about anyone. He’s just...noticing.

He’s just learning the histories of different races. There’s nothing wrong with that. His mother is German and he knows from a picture that his father was white. He’s just learning.

**Seventeen.**

He dropped the n-word. It was entirely accidental. He didn’t mean to. He _didn’t_. He—

He’s in the principal’s office anyway. It smells thick with cheap lavender scent and new paper. He holds his back straight and tries not to let his body language be too hunched and confident, but he isn’t sure that it’s working. How much of this squirming twisting shameful anxiety is showing on his face?

“James Reichmanger,” the principal finally says, and Nazi can’t quite read the tone. “You used a racial slur towards one of our black students. I hope you understand that here we stand for diversity and mean to be an inclusive space towards students of any race sexuality religion or ethnicity, and that your behavior was unacceptable.”

Mom’s fingers dig harder into his shoulders. Why the fuck did they have to call her?

“Yes,” Nazi says. “I’m sorry. I’ll apologize. It was impulsive and I didn’t mean it.”

He isn’t sorry, he will apologize, it was impulsive, he...did mean it. Kind of. Ish. Or—it’s not like he hates blacks or thinks they should be killed! But it’s...there is _real_ science...and the fucker was aggressive and the whole argument was stupid and black crime statistics are _real_. Numbers don’t lie.

The principal sighs. “You need to act better, James. It’s not just the racial slur, it’s your history of homophobic and transphobic remarks. I won’t have you expelled, but you’re still getting suspension.”

 _God fucking damn it_ , Nazi thinks, biting down on his cheek. _Fuck you. I didn’t do anything wrong._

“I’m so sorry for his shameful behavior,” Mom says, “I thought I raised him better than this.”

_You barely raised me. The internet raised me._

“That’s alright Mrs. Reichmanger,” the principal says, “I understand it gets hard as a single mother trying to raise a boy all on your own.”

Nazi can almost _see_ Mom’s plastic smile. “Thank you so much. I promise I’ll discipline him better.”

“Of course.”

So Mom bows and they exchange more pleasantries. She takes Nazi’s wrist into her hand and squeezes tight enough to hurt when she pulls him out. It’s cold outside and frosty autumn chill bites at Nazi’s nose and ears. She doesn’t drop the iron grip until they’re at her car.

They’re silent for the first minutes of driving.

“That was utterly shameful,” she finally breaks, voice scathing. “Do you have any idea how _embarrassing_ it is to have raised a son that throws bigotry around so easily? You are a _civilized_ young man.”

Nazi grits his teeth. “the only reason you care is because boo-hoo I _embarrassed_ you.”

“I RAISED YOU BETTER—”

“You didn’t fucking raise me!”

“Oh yeah?” Mom slams down on the breaks and pulls over by the curb “Who fed and watered you!? Who tucked you into bed!? Who pays for your schooling!? Who sacrificed her whole life for you!? I could have abandoned you, you know! It’s not like I WANTED YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE!”

Nazi already knew this. It shouldn’t hurt so bad. It does. And hurt turns to sadness, sadness to anger, anger brews and mixes and makes frustration that wrenches up from his gut. “Maybe if you didn’t want kids you shouldn’t have been WHORING AROUND AND FUCKING GUYS LIKE A CHEAP PROSTITUTE—”

Mom slaps him. Really fucking hard. Right across the face. His eyes hurt.

Loathing bubbles and burgeons and seeps up from his bones and into something more palpable. _Intent_.

His hand stings with impact before he even really realizes what he’s done.

Oh god.

“Sorry!” he says, “Sorry I didn’t mean to, I mean, I—”

“Get out,” she says. “You’re walking home.”

He opens the door and gets out. Cold air bites at his skin. She drives off. He forgot his hat inside. Fuck this. Fuck her. Fuck the principal. Fuck the stupid shitty city with it’s horrible unclean public transport. Fuck the black guy. Fuck himself for getting into this whole situation, and having bad grades, and being born, and misspeaking, and letting his emotions get out of hand, and—

He should start getting home now. He calls a taxi. While he’s waiting, he nervously glances around. There are dark alleyways with graffiti. There are people all around, colored and otherwise. Cities are such shitholes. This doesn’t feel safe at all.

It’s all stupid. He wants to go back home, where the grass is green and the people look like him and the town is small. Where he can find some corner of town and not have to worry about being assaulted by some rapist fag.

He wants to find that western world where everything is perfect and everyone is strong and capable and pristine. Where people understand the intimate link between race and civilization. Where his cultural identity isn’t being eroded. Where he isn’t called privileged and evil for being a straight white man. In that kind of world, where everyone acts with order and dignity, his mother wouldn’t exist and he wouldn’t be standing here in the cold.

Fuck, Nazi wants to go home to that place he’s never been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first part out. I'm really worried that this first chapter has been extremely boring. I would make a longer note but I am so done with writing notes rn and have stuff to do sorry T-T  
> Would love to read comments. If you enjoyed please don't hesitate to leave one.


	2. Fear and Loathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guns, _thoughts_ , and Ancap. 
> 
> (ive just taken a break from math to upload this fucking chapter and im procrastinating so bad ghhh [stressed noises] I hope you like it)

**Eighteen.**

Nazi turns eighteen in late October, when the sky is gray and the leaves are bright. His mother pretends he doesn't exist. He spends the day online.

_JRAnon_ _: Afternoon. Turned 18 today._

_AR1488_ _: !!_

_AgrAryan: Happy birthday!_

_JR_ _Anon_ _: thanks. My mom's still being a bitch :/ I can't wait to move out. Wanna play something or...?_

_AgrAryan: lmao bad luck just kys. No jokes aside, that actually sucks though. And I'm free :)_

_AR1488:_ _hope u get out soon. Living with a feminist must be shit. Guess that's just what happens when a woman lives without a strong male presence. I'm also free_ _!_

**Eighteen.**

His new residence is a number of city blocks away from where Mom still lives. It's a shitty rundown apartment with an ever-present must, peeling paint, and suspiciously-stained carpets. There are three rooms total. There is the kitchen, which shares into a space that could generously be called a 'living room'. The bathroom, which is small and cramped with the shower grossly close to the toilet and everything so unsanitary feeling that Nazi kind of just has to pretend nothing is wrong. And, finally, the bedroom, which, though small and without windows, is not entirely bad.

He keeps up rent by working two shitty low-end jobs. He isn't going to collage. By the end of the day, he has little energy for anything but flopping down onto bed and staring at the wall or dully amusing himself with offending liberals. Story of his life, huh?

Still...it gives him a lot more free time than he had before.

So he...takes to youtube. He takes to watching podcasts that span hours. It's low effort and he can play it as he lies awake at night and suffers in the suffocating heat. No air conditioning.

And he thinks, and listens, and thinks, and listens, and there is no one to bounce these ideas off of bar his coworkers, who he isn't close with in the slightest, so he just...thinks.

 **Eighteen**.

Colored crime. Inherent criminality.

**Eighteen.**

It is a little interesting that so many people in positions of power are Jewish. Just—interesting.

**Eighteen.**

The great replacement is really pretty terrifying. Other historical genocides have at least been recognized by _some_ part of the world.

**Nineteen.**

His phone rings on his nineteenth birthday. He doesn't recognize the number. No one ever calls him. What the hell? He hesitantly accepts.

A beat.

"...James?"

Nazi freezes, for just a moment. Discomfort tingles through his fingers. Fuck. He can't do this right now.

"James can you hear me?" Mom asks.

He hangs up and blocks her new number. Does she even know where he lives?

**Nineteen.**

One night, he's directed to a video on how the Jews capitalize on perceived tragedy to avoid criticism. And somehow that feels...gross, ugly, like something he shouldn't touch. He's learned the history of Jewish persecution in the Third Reich. He read about it in school. So he hesitates on following through the links, but—

it also seems interesting, and it's from a creator he's vaguely heard by recommendation, and he is so very curious. Why should this _one narrative_ be somehow completely safe from criticism? The west is already corrupted with other false narratives.

So he listens, and his world tilts, just a little. These differences in perspective, this new truth, it makes sense. And—

And it makes him angry, if he thinks about it right. That this has been hidden, that the world is so blind, that the world is so _fooled_ by _them_ , that the _they_ have controlled the narrative so thoroughly, that _they_ 've twisted the historical truth in order to victimize themselves—

Yeah. It makes him angry.

**Twenty.**

The world unfolds before him, and it's horrifying. The clearer a view of everything he gets, the more twisted it all becomes. It's like someone is wiping the fog from a picture frame. And god ( _god—_ what even is that? God is dead and useless and not based in reason) he _hates_ it.

He hates all of it so much. The world. Other races. _Them_. Everyone who isn't his volk. Everyone who _is_ his volk, but is also a tranny or a fag or a race-traitor or a woman or—

Nazi curls into his blankets and feels cold. What time is it? He should really go to sleep soon. Last night he only got four hours. That day fucking sucked. Why is he like this? Why can't he just keep a schedule? Damn it.

He breathes in, out. Mildew. His water is out and his throat is dry. His bedside water bottle is out. What time is it? His phone vibrates. He turns it on and the light hurts his eyes, just a little. Four in the morning. YouTube notification. _Reacting to trans cringe pt.2_ —he'll watch it in the morning. He should refill his water bottle.

Four in the morning. Damn it. Get up!

He grabs his water bottle and jerks up. Exhausting. He walks to the kitchen. Exhausting. He fills the water bottle and drinks some down. It tastes bad. He glares at the window that sits above his sink. It's the only window in the whole damn apartment.

Outside, the city is alive and blinking and bustling and doesn't sleep. Holy shit, he hates it. He hates it so bad. Back home, he could take a night-walk without worrying about being assaulted. Fuck this. Fuck _this_. All of it. It for existing, and him for being here. Him for staying in this shitty room and not keeping a good schedule and not being happy and—

 _I hate this_. _I hate them. I hate them for putting me here. I hate me for staying here. I hate that I can't do anything about it. I don't want to be here. I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. I—_

Nazi squeezes his eyes shut, opens them, and goes back to bed. He can't stop _thinking_ about it.

**Twenty.**

His job fires him. He gets so angry ranting about it at his second job that they fire him, too.

So.

Yeah.

He can't find a new job.

Instead, he spends all day in his room, _trying_ to find a job, and seething. It's a white-hot anger that burns beneath his skin and boils and turns in on itself and stews and stews and stews. Why can't he do anything right? There's a _race war_ coming and here he is, stuck inside doing nothing. Misspeaking and getting fired.

At this point, he's really just a burden to society, huh? Everyone hates him. The people he looks up to don't even know he exists. Mom's number is still blocked. She never cared for him anyway. So really, it's not like anyone would miss him if he were gone. No one would complain if he hypothetically killed himself. Hypothetically.

...Actually, Nazi thinks, staring at the ceiling from his bed, fingers a little numb, hypothetically, would anyone even know he was dead? He doesn't have to show up for work. No one calls him, or enters his apartment. It's perfectly normal for people to go silent in chat rooms. So maybe the first person to know of his suicide would be his fucking landlord. Figures.

It's honestly a bit funny, if he thinks of it right. Finding dead bodies is traumatic, huh? He wouldn't mind traumatizing his landlord.

Hypothetically.

_Hypothetically, if someone were to kill himself, what would be the best way to do it?_

_> Don't._

_> Just do it B_ _)_

_> in a productive way_

**Twenty.**

What's a productive way to die? In a war, probably. Imagine dying in a war. That would be a glorious death. That kind of death would have purpose and honor. Dying alone in his room would be pathetic. Shooting himself through the skull would be _pathetic_. (And besides, he doesn't even have a gun.) On the other hand, to be a martyr...

There would be purpose in that.

But joining the military is a process that Nazi doesn't even know how to begin, and it would take years to reach any battlefront, and he might not even die. A current war...the race war. The war being fought against the White Genocide. He should prepare for that. He could die for that.

 _Hypothetically_. In theory.

Nazi bites the skin off his lips. It stings a little. Has he made them bleed? Ah. He stares at his screen. Closes Youtube. Opens a notes app. He got it, some time ago, with intent of fixing his schedule. It didn't work.

Dying is a bad idea. Because he—

because he has a lot to live for? (No.) Because people care about him? (No.) Because he's a useful member of society? (No.) Because things are going to get better? (No.) Because...hah.

Because he's worthless and stupid and can't keep a job, because no one fucking likes him, because he's going to be kicked out of his apartment in a month and onto the cold September streets, because he's a white cis het man and apparently that means he faces no struggle, because he dug himself here and can't dig himself out, because he's so fucking angry and sad and there's no end to this and nothing will ever change and it won't _stop_ unless he makes it, and—

he starts writing a note. About the war he would die in. About why he would choose to die in it. About the Jews and the blacks and the intimate tie between race and civilization. About everything that he loathes. About why he will shoot himself through the skull and—

(Hypothetically.)

(In _theory_.)

( _Glory? Purpose? Dying among compatriots? Hah. Stop kidding yourself, you just want to die._ )

 **Twenty**.

He sets off to buy a gun. It's...not that hard, actually. To find an illegal place.

The door chime rings softly behind him. He glances around. It's...not exactly what he expected. Then again, what was he expecting? The place is clean and classy, with polished tabletops and abstract art hanging on the walls. The lights are off and all illumination comes from a warm lantern hanging next to a _Staff Only_ door towards the back.

Nazi shifts around on his feet. Smooths down the fabric of his shirt. Waits.

Footsteps come. The door swings open, revealing a short, well dressed man wearing a frankly ridiculous top hat. He blinks at Nazi. "The bar opens at eight, we're closed." he has a thick southern accent. Not from around here, huh?

"I don't want a drink," says Nazi, resisting the urge to bite at his dry lips. Then adds, hesitantly, "or dinner."

The man eyes him a moment longer before curtly nodding. "Well, in that case, we'll see what we can do." He gestures for Nazi to follow him into the back room. "What do you want one for? I've got a name but ya can just think of me as Libertarian. Honestly this isn't even my stop but the normal keeper is meeting with the big boss, so."

"...Uhhuh," Nazi says, glancing around the dimly lit staircase. there's another door towards the bottom. This one is metal. "My name's James. I just...want one for personal safety and the government doesn't have to know."

Libertarian unlocks the second door and hums. They step into...a lounge. The concrete floor is carpeted, and there's a low coffee table, and comfortable-looking couches. From there they walk into an open doorway that leads into chilly food cellars, and then, finally, _another_ locked door. Libertarian unlocks that, too. Then flicks on the lights.

The whole room is stacked with firearms and bags of...suspicious substance. Nazi grimaces.

"So," Libertarian says, "what'll you have?"

"A pistol and..." what? Something...something that could do a lot of damage, in a short mount of time. Something angry. "...an assault rifle."

Libertarian nods distractedly and digs through the various firearms. Nazi waits. The basement air is cold and frosty. His fingers are numb. Fuck, what is he even doing? This is for—for the upcoming race war. Just in case. Just as preparation.

(For preemptive action?)

They agree on two firearms. Libertarian asks if he wants ammo with them. Nazi nods. Libertarian picks the guns and the ammo into two innocuous bags.

"We accept cash card or crypto," he says.

"Cash." Nazi digs out his wallet. He's pouring a lot of his last funds into this. He pays. Libertarian hands him the bags. They walk out, and Libertarian locks the door behind them. Nazi shivers.

"Nice doing business with you," Libertarian says, when they're in front of the exist door, and sticks out his hand.

Nazi manages to muster something that maybe resembles a smile. He shakes that man's hand. "Yeah. Nice. Thank you."

They break contact. Libertarian tips his hat. Nazi doesn't have a hat to tip. (he should get one.) He turns around to open the door and—

The door is already swinging open. Nazi blinks. There are two men in the entrance. One of somewhat average height, with straight caramel hair and a plain gray shirt that reads _lets not be too hasty here_ , and he looks a little like he's on the edge of a panic attack. (Pathetic.) The other is...overwhelming, really.

The second man practically towers in the doorway, long limbs and long fingers, sleek silver business suit and curly brown hair beneath his gold hat. There's an air about him, something rich and powerful and confident. There is no slump in his posture. He looks completely out of place down on the grimy streets, and that contrast is so stark it's almost startling.

A beat.

The man tilts his head. Nazi can't see his eyes beneath those sunglasses, but he gets a crawling, itching feeling that he's being intensely studied and profiled. "A customer! Hmm, not drugs...guns? I hope we could meet your needs!"

"Oh uh," Nazi says, feeling inexplicably nervous, "um yeah. It—he, Libertarian helped. I uh, um, it was fine."

" _Fine?_ " The man gasps, "well I should certainly hope so! We pride ourselves with _excellent_ customer service. Libertarian?"

"Pistol and assault rifle," says Libertarian, "welcome back, boss. Moderate cleared?"

"Yes yes," the man—the _boss_ , apparently ( _boss?_ Which kind of boss? This—Nazi is pretty sure this store isn't independent. It's part of a whole organization) waves his hand dismissively. "More importantly... I'm happy we could provide you! What was your name?"

"Uhh," says Nazi, feeling like this situation has somehow flown entirely out of his control, "James." He looks at Nazi expectantly. "James Reichmanger."

"What a wonderful name! German decent?"

Nazi perks. "Yes! My mother is pure blooded and my father was some other European mix, probably. Definitely white."

The man smiles wide and snake-like. "Lovely to make your acquaintance, James. You can call me by Ancap." He holds out his hand.

Nazi hesitates only a moment before reaching out to shake it, but—instead of shaking, Ancap spins him around 180°, clasps his other hand around Nazi's shoulder, and walks them both out of the entrance way and inside.

"Hey wait—" Nazi starts to protest, but Ancap has already let him go and pulled a chair down from one of the tables. Ancap smiles and gestures him to sit. Nazi...sits. "...What?"

Ancap swings himself into a chair across the table, places his elbows on the wood, threads his fingers together, and leans fore ward. Lamplight glints off the edge of Ancap's sunglasses. "A pistol and assault rifle? For what?"

Nazi's skin pricks. "That's none of your _business—_ "

"Let's play a game," Ancap says, utterly unfazed, "I guess things about you, and you guess about me."

What? Nazi has no idea where this is going, or what _games_ has to do with it. "...Sure."

"Wonderful! I'll go first," Ancap pauses. "You got fired recently? Are out of a job? Unfairly, perhaps?"

How does he _know?_ Is Nazi really such an open book on _everything?_ "...Yeah." Ancap looks at him expectantly. Oh, right. His turn. "You...err...are involved with organized crime?"

"Oh I wouldn't phrase it so _crudely_ ," Ancap sighs, "some arms trafficking here, a ponzi scheme there, the occasional substance distribution and club of dubious legality...you could say so, yes." Pause, tapping fingers. "You don't have any friends? Any close personal connections?"

Nazi winces. Wonders why he's still here.

Apparently Nazi's silence serves answer enough because Ancap says: "Excellent! And your guess?"

"You aren't trustworthy at all."

"Well," the man hums, "that's a subjective thing, isn't it?"

"Hah."

"I'll bet that you're sad and lonely and angry. I'll bet that one of those guns is for mass murder and the other for suicide." Nazi freezes. Off to the side, someone takes a sharp breath. Ancap just smiles wider, and it's an eerie sort of expression on the shaded face. "So? Am I correct?"

The bastard. He already knows.

"It's all hypothetical," Nazi mutters. (Hypothetical.)

"Last guess," Ancap says, completely skipping Nazi's turn, "I'll bet that you're also wondering the point to all this. Why am I asking you questions? Why do I care about your life? Why am I keeping you here?"

 _Bastard_. "Yeah," Nazi hisses, "I _am_ wondering that."

"Well, take a guess! Why am I?"

Nazi glares. Ancap smiles, all quiet confidence and calm relaxation. Why? Why would the fucking stranger organized crime boss with his fingers in all sorts of illegalities be prying about him? Why was Ancap here in the first place? To...clear someone? The plain guy who _still_ looks on the verge of mental breakdown? Ancap's first question was about employment. His second about personal connections. His third about mental state.

It clicks. Ancap notices the minute changes in posture and perks up. "Figured it out?"

"You..." Nazi almost can't believe it. "...are looking to hire me?"

Ancap grins, all white teeth and mock-giddiness. "Clap clap we have a winner!"

"But why _me?_ " He isn't useful. He barely even know what this place is, much less how to work here. And he's pretty useless in general.

"You'd be surprised on just how hard it is to find someone willing to work here without significant ties in the legal or illegal world," Ancap laments. "Who would I be if I didn't chase every opportunity I sensed?"

"But I'm..."

"You'll fit in just fine," Ancap assures, "bar Moderate and maybe Conservative, there are some like-minded people at this fine establishment! Well, relative to my estimation of you, at least."

"Your estimation of me..?"

Ancap shrugs. "Probably some off-brand Nazi."

"What!? No, I—" he starts to defend, then...stops. Thinks. "The Third Reich has been absolutely slandered by _their_ media. Hitler didn't hate Jews, he hated filth and—"

"Oh _no_ ," the plain looking guy whimpers, sounding like he's going to cry, "please don't give him to me, please—"

"Quit complaining," Ancap says, sharply. The refocuses to Nazi and tilts his head in question. "You'll be accepted here, won't be fired so long as you do your job. You need income, correct? I can pay any expenses you might have until your third payday. So...what'll it be?"

Nazi hesitates, only half a second ( _suspicious, is this really a good idea, you don't even know his name, this is illegal, they're trafficking, it—_ ) "Yeah," Nazi says, "yeah—thank you."

Ancap claps his hands. "Wonderful!" He gestures off to the side and Libertarian passes a stapled bind of papers. Ancap produces a pen out of seemingly no where, flips to the last page, taps a long, black-painted nail on an empty stretch of blank lines. "Sign your initials, put down your information, and we'll be all-set!"

The man presses his pen into Nazi's hand. Nazi curs his fingers around it. Breathes in a shaking breath. Starts filling in the information in stark black. Full name, date of birth, current residence, debt, immediate relatives, email, phone number, education...

Nazi squints on the last two. "Branch number, supervisor, and working name..?"

"Branch number is thirty six, supervisor is Moderate Lee, working name..." Ancap hums, looks at him for a long moment as he fills in the last two. "Let's go with Nazi."

" _What?_ " Nazi says. "No, no. No I'm not calling myself Nazi."

"Oh, you Nazis and your silly little linguistic games," Ancap sighs, "fine. How does White Identitarian sound?"

"That's...alright." He writes it in. The moment he's capped the pen and set it down, Ancap swipes away the papers and pockets the pen.

"Alright then!" Ancap smiles wide. He's always smiling. "Report in for your first day of work in a week's time. We'll have delivered you a uniform and job requirements by that time. Excellent doing business with you!"

The man ( _Nazi's new boss, wow_ ) lifts himself out of sitting, stretched a little, and beckons towards Libertarian. "Come on, darling! More work to do elsewhere! I'll say, today has been _unexpectedly_ productive."

Libertarian walks over and takes the stapled papers and passes them to the plain man that Nazi is now guessing to be Moderate. "You're really that excited?"

"I haven't done such low-stakes ground work in months! Honestly, our recruiters really aren't trying hard enough. That was _pathetically_ easy."

Libertarian sighs fondly. "It was easy for _you_."

Ancap laughs, takes Libertarian by the hand, and skips them towards the exit door. He pauses when they're halfway out, faces Nazi, and tips his hat. "Till next time. I hope to see you've settled well."

And then they're gone and out the door. Nazi is left feeling like a storm has just passed, and barely knowing what he's done, and in awkward silence with probably-Moderate. The other is staring at him.

"...Hi," says Nazi.

"Hi," probably-Moderate mutters, "well, you heard the boss. See you next week. _Please_ read through the full work requirements. Homonat didn't and his whole first work day was a disaster. Now off you go. I need to set up shop."

"Yeah," Nazi says, still feeling numb, "okay. See you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally the last section was supposed to be more split up but I think it works better like this. The whole last scene with Ancap was so fucking fun to write. He's great. That said, I'm actually kind of worried that he was ooc. Hnn. I hope it wasn't too bad and that you enjoyed regardless. I'm a bit worried. things are getting interesting, hmm? 
> 
> Per usual, I really appreciate comments (I eat them up like little dopamine candies) so please don't hesitate to leave one


	3. title later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nationalists are introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm characterizing Homonat as a Homofascist not a Homonationalist but narration refers to him as Homonat because I prefer that spelling.
> 
> Please keep in mind the transphobia and misgendering tags.  
> All the tags, actually.

**Twenty.**

So, now he has an assault rifle and pistol, but he also...also has a future.

He thinks about it anyway. The pistol is heavy and cold in his hand. It feels dangerous and thrilling, and doubtless, it he held it to his temple, it's all be over quick.

He also has a future, though. And it doesn't look bright, and he's only now just realized that he has no idea what the fuck he signed, but it is—is something.

Nazi tucks the pistol away beneath his bed.

**Twenty One.**

Nazi shows up three hours before opening hours, feeling jittery and nervous. Unlocks the door with the card he's been mailed. (Must've only been unlocked last time because of Libertarian.) He changes into his uniform in the bathroom. It's...not uncomfortable. It looks good, actually.

Nazi fiddles with the sleeves. Stiff fabric. Looks at himself in the mirror. Combed hair, brushed teeth, washed face. Blue eyes, light brown hair. (Maybe he should dye it blonde?) The uniform is three parts: a crisp black button-up dress shirt, smooth white pants, and shiny black shoes. Optional white-and-black hat. He looks fine. He'll be fine.

Breathe in, breathe out. Dig nails into his palms.

He leaves the bathroom. Waits in the staff-only lounge for what seems like hours, but is probably only ten minutes. A jingle. That's the door. No voices, though.

Moderate comes peeking into the lounge. Blinks at him. "...Nazi, you're here early."

He crosses his arms. "Should I not be?"

Moderate hastily shakes his head. "No! No, I mean, it's nice. You read the requirements, right?"

"Yeah," Nazi says, "basically just an employee at a normal bar except always keeping an eye out for anyone looking to do illegal business and assisting them, right? Or—while I'm still new, referring them to one of you. Fuck, I can't believe I'm helping distribute drugs."

Moderate nods sympathetically. "I don't want to do this either."

"...What?"

"They blackmailed me," Moderate sniffles, "I don't want to die. And I'm good enough with accounting and organizing, so they keep me. I kind of wanted to shout at you not to sign it but the boss would've shot me, or something. I mean, it's not the worst job but..."

Moderate is kind of pathetic.

"..Right," says Nazi.

"I'll go start setting up," Moderate sighs, "come with me?"

Nazi nods. They start preparing the bar.

"Are you really okay with distributing drugs?" Nazi asks, while they're working.

"I don't have a very strong opinion of it," Moderate sighs. "Ancap has made good arguments for it being morally acceptable but other people have made good arguments saying the opposite..."

Nazi is about to retort, but—

The door jingles. Loud voices. Someone laughing, someone telling them to calm down, someone telling them both to shut up. They pour in together.

Nazi blinks. White, white—black. One of the three employee is black. Not even mixed. _Dark_. With thick lips and different bone structure and Nazi feels unsafe already. They're all already in-uniform, wearing it in variation.

Nazi swallows.

"Hi," he says.

One of them—who is clinging around the chiding-sounding one, blinks at him for a moment, untangles from the other, and grins wide. "Hi! So you're the new guy huh. Fuck I didn't exact you to be so _hot—_ or, well, I should've expected it. What a _sexy_ Nazi. Nice to meet you! My name is Homofascist but usually I just go by Homonationalist or Homonat!"

"Uh," says Nazi, feeling something between mortified and repulsed.

He was too focused on the black guy, but this one is clearly a fag. The top three button's of Homonat's uniform are undone, only closing just above the breast, and his nails are painted, and his ears are pieced and hung with colorful loops, and there's a rainbow pin on his work-hat. He's also wearing an apron-skirt.

The other white looks incredibly abashed. "I'm so sorry for the terrible first impression. That...err...Homonat has been my friend since high school. I know it can be a bit much sometimes. I go by Conservative."

Oh thank god. Someone reasonable. Even if he's just a conservative. Cuckservative. Way too weak and never goes or thinks far enough. Conservative is wearing a cross around his neck, but besides that the uniform in unaltered.

"It's okay," Nazi says. "You seem reasonable."

And next... the black. His uniform is also standard, except he's also wearing a cook's apron and has his sleeves rolled up. His hair is in grossly unprofessional dreads. They stare at each other for a moment.

"So..." says the black, "...you're another brand of Nazi."

"White Identitarian."

"Right," he says, "well I'm a black nationalist. Call me Pan-Africanist."

Nazi blinks. "...Black nationalist?"

Pan-Africanist crosses his arms. "I think Africa is the homeland of blacks and we all have to return there. It's the only true way to escape oppression of the White Man. Ethnostates are the only real functioning kind of state."

"What the fuck," says Nazi, "if all black people were this based we wouldn't have a problem!"

"Oh lord," says Conservative.

Homonationalist sighs dreamily.

"I'm so happy none of you are killing each other," says Moderate, "please continue to get along."

"Right right," Nazi says, and find he actually kind of means it. Ancap wasn't lying when he said Nazi would fit in here. These people...

yeah, Nazi thinks he can get along with them.

(Although Homonat is still a disgusting fag, Pan-Africanist is still _black_ , Conservative is still a cuck, and Moderate is just pathetic.)

**Twenty one.**

So he works. At the restaurant. Pan-Africanist is the cook. Homonationalist is a server. Conservative mans the desk, cooks, _and_ is a server. Moderate makes sure everything doesn't fall apart. Nazi...

Nazi starts to settle. There is no longer any anxiety that they will kick him out for his political position, so long as he doesn't disturb the customers.

Months pass.

**Twenty one.**

"We should like, do something," Homonat says, one day, spread out over one of the lounge-couches, legs swaying in the air.

" _No_ ," Conservative immediately says. "No your ideas are terrible and I'm never going through the shame of being caught vandalizing ever again."

"Ew you're so boring." Homonat checks himself in a hand mirror and pops his lips. "You weren't even vandalizing, just watching _me_ vandalize. Besides that was so long ago. And it wasn't that bad anyway."

"You were spray-painting dicks all over the school wall!"

"As I said, not that bad!"

"Ugh," Nazi wrinkles his nose, "please have some decency. I don't know how I haven't hit you yet."

Pan-Africanist hums. "What's the idea?"

"Camping!" Homonat grins at them. He looks at Nazi and winks. "Maybe we can even share tents."

Nazi grimaces. Homonat flirts incessantly. It's absolutely disgusting and revolting and the man is a shame to whites everywhere, but he never _touches_ him. Beyond casual brushes. So it's...Nazi doesn't feel _unsafe_ around him. Usually. "It's not even summer. I'm not stranding myself in the wilderness when it's all wet and muddy."

"Not _now_ , Nazi," Homonat says, "like, in a few months or something. I know this one place with a clear lake and berries and nice camping ground. It'll be fun!"

"Not like I'd know," Nazi mutters. He's never been camping before. It seems like shit.

Conservative looks at him strangely. "You've never been camping before?"

Nazi's skin pricks self-consciously. He resists the urge to draw into himself. That's beta behavior. "Yeah."

Homonat gasps. "Sin!"

Conservative nods. "That's kind of sad. I'll ask Moderate if he wants to come."

Pan-Africanist snickers. "Moderate will come if we're all going."

They're speaking like they've already reached consensus on going. Nazi frowns. "Wait I haven't agreed—"

Homonat pats his knee. "Give it up man. You're coming. Promise it'll be fun."

**Twenty one.**

They go camping in July, when the fields are thick with blackberries and raspberries. They set down one enormousness tent and trample down the overgrown grass. The field is only a few minute walk away from a clear-looking lake. They'll go swimming tomorrow. It's already evening now.

Pan-Africanist tosses another stick into the fire. Nazi really isn't sure why they're having a fire, because it's already pretty fucking hot.

"What is this place, anyway?" Pan-Africanist asks, glancing around at the rampant bushes and overgrown grass. "it's not really...a typical campsite. And we're the only ones here."

"Technically," Conservative explains, "it isn't a campsite. Ancap, through some complicated web of financial entanglements, owns this land and doesn't mind if we use it."

Homonat hums.

Nazi breathes in, breathes out. Smoke. Fresh air. It tastes clear and grassy. He hasn't breathed this well since moving into the city. It's such a stark contrast from the smog of his apartment. It makes him think of future-paradise.

Someone pokes him. Nazi opens his eyes and give Homonat a sour expression.

Homonat just grins. "Listen. They're hilarious."

Nazi shifts focus to the conversation. Ugh. Conservative is arguing that race science is a scam again. Moderate looks like he's going to cry. Pan-Africanist is...arguing that white people are generally just worse people?

"Holy fucking shit man," Nazi says, "just call yourself racist."

"Hey," Conservative frowns at him chidingly, "no swearing! It's impolite!"

"Black people can't be racist and calling me racist is a cheap way to sweep my anti-colonial sentiment under the rug," Pan-Africanist sniffs, "also I don't want to hear that from _you_ , mister _'definitely not a Nazi or white supremacist what are you talking about'._ "

Nazi and Pan-Africanist glare at each other. The humid summer air clings to Nazi's skin uncomfortably.

"Look," Nazi says, "I'm a _race realist_ and have a lot of evidence on my side. I mean! Just look at black crime statistics!"

Conservative groans into his hand. "You should talk to my black friend Black Conservative. He likes talking about black crime statistics almost more than you do."

Homonat sighs airily. "You're all wrong. Gays are the master race. Well, like, gay Aryans."

A beat.

Moderate emerges from the tent. "I brought the smore ingredients...?" They all perk. Nazi has never had a smore before. The subject is neatly tucked away beneath chocolate and graham crackers.

 **Twenty One**.

The next day, they go to the blue-water lake. There's a small few feet of dirt-sand leading up to the water and a few large rocks running into it. Nazi has never swam in a lake before, and has doubts about the whole thing.

For some bizarre reason, Homonat is the one that dresses most conservatively of them all. Nazi half expected him to swim in a thong and nothing else, but instead he's wearing swim shorts and a whole damn t-shirt.

Nazi toes a foot into the water and cringes hard. The bottom is all muddy and sinks grossly beneath his foot. It's _gross_. And also _cold_.

"Come _on_ ," Homonat complains. He's already several feet into the water. "It's cold. Get over it."

"But it's _gross_."

Homonat rolls his eyes. "It won't be gross when you aren't touching the bottom anymore. You _can_ swim, right?"

"Of course I can swim!" He's just...not very good at it.

The other man comes closer to the shore, pauses a moment, then grabs Nazi's hand sharply and pulls with unexpected strength for such a feminized fag. Nazi stumbles and manages to keep only three steps before completely stumbling and being pushed underwater by Homonat. He sputters and inhales water, only most of which is couched out when he surfaces. And _fuck_ that's so _cold_.

"You fucking _fag!_ " Nazi swears and grabs onto Homonat's arms. The fag only laughs and starts wrestling him. They fight into deeper water. Nazi is taller and manages to keep better footing. Homonat goes under and Nazi releases his hold.

A beat. Two, three.

Nazi's ankle is pulled.

FUCK—

And he's under again. They both are. Nazi doesn't close his eyes. Homonat's outline is wavey and blurred beneath the water. He grabs Nazi's hand and swims them into deeper water. Over here...

It's a layered, deep color of green and blue. Like being in the center of liquid jade. It would be breathtaking, if Nazi already could not breathe. He glances at Homonat. The man is a pale form in the water, features skewed just a bit, shirt floating just above his nipples and—

wait.

Wait.

What is that?

There is—dark lines across his chest. Breast area. They are...scars?

Wait wait wait wait—

Nazi reaches out to touch them, Homonat twists around, wide-eyed, and kicks away and up. Nazi is quick to follow back to the surface.

"Wait Homonat you aren't..."

Homonat blinks at him, and his—their—her(?) expression is unfazed and loose as ever. "I am a man."

"But you—"

"I am a _man_."

A beat. Nazi stares. Fuck. Homonat is—he's—he's a _she_. She's a woman. Holy shit. She's a _girl_. Nazi knew Homonat was feminine but he didn't think he—she was _actually_ a girl. "Oh my god you aren't a fag you're a _tranny._ "

For a moment, Nazi fears that Homonat is going to slap him. Or yell at him. Lose her cool and turn violent.

Instead...

"I'm a fag _and_ a tranny," Homonat laughs. "Nothing has changed between now and five minutes ago. I'm still a guy."

"You're _delusional_ ," Nazi says, feeling dizzy, "you're a _girl_. What the fuck. Does—" Nazi pauses, faces the shore. "CONSERVATIVE!"

Conservative, who's been lounging on one of the rocks with Moderate, waves at him. Ugh. He swims towards the shore. Homonat stays just a moment before following. Nazi steps onto one of the flatter rocks. Water drips off him. Shivers, even though he isn't cold.

Conservative blinks up at him. "...Want some watermelon?"

"No," Nazi says, "no—no. Did you know Homonat is a girl?"

The other's expression pinches. His eyes stray to Homonat, who has emerged behind him. "Look," Conservative says, tone slow and careful, "I...acknowledge Homonat as a...man... Jordan Peterson uses trans people's pronouns and only doesn't if they're ridiculous or if he's being forced to. If you don't see Homonat as a man then that's your right, of course."

"What the _fuck_ ," Nazi mutters. "You can't be serious. Homonat isn't a _man_. If he—I mean if she's a girl then she's a _girl._ "

"..." Homonat crosses her arms. "I don't care what you think."

Moderate, who has been watching them with wide eyes and furrowed brows says: "Um...don't be too hasty guys. No need for aggression. You still both have a lot in common..."

"Yeah!" Homonat agrees. "I mean, I still hate woman just as much as the next guy."

"But _you're_ a woman—"

"And still believe in an ethnostate, and the superiority of the white race—because clearly our race has produced the most civilized and enlightened society whereas colored—" Homonat glances at Pan-Africanist, who's wading towards them through the shallows. "—well, black, but _particularly_ Middle Eastern and civilizations built by _Muslims_." The last bit is spat with palpable vitriol.

Right.

Similarities.

Right.

It's...Homonat is a tranny and a woman and some strand of delusional, but she has not changed from before. At least that's an explanation for why she continued flirting with him after he told her he is straight.

"Yeah," Nazi says, although his very skin is still crawling and itching and he feels disgusted. "Yeah, okay. At least you're still not an SJW."

"Of course not." Homonat rolls her eyes. "And maybe sometime you'll realize I'm not a woman, either."

**Twenty One.**

Nazi and Homonat are the last two awake. Conservative is breathing steady, Pan-Africanist sleeps like a rock, and Moderate is in a rare night of calm sleep. Nazi can't help but glare at the tent ceiling. It's been a couple days and he still hasn't gotten over Homonat being a girl. And there was—was that weird thing where she looked at Pan-Africanist and toned down the anti-black racism. Was that all show or was it genuine? If _she_ is questioning anti-black racism then—

Someone shifts in the mess of sleeping bags and pillows.

"Nazi?" Homonat whispers.

"...I'm awake."

"I can't sleep."

"Yeah."

"You too?"

Nazi doesn't answer. Thinks. "...What's your view on Pan-Africanist?"

Another shift in the blankets. Homonat crawls over, just out of arms-reach. "Well he's..." she pauses, "...nice. He's nice. And he accepts that I'm a guy. And I've never seen him hurt anyone. I mean, he's less violent than you. I still can't believe you punched that one lady in the face last month."

Nazi flushes. "She was _annoying_."

"She was a _customer_."

"Shut up."

Homonat muffles a laugh. "No."

Nazi stares at the ceiling. Outside, crickets and frogs sing incessantly. He pushes part of a sticky too-thick blanket off himself and turns around. "You're changing the subject."

"I said he's nice."

"But..." _that's not...it's true but..._ "you know that isn't my actual question."

"Yeah," Homonat says. Pause. Nazi counts seconds. "I don't know. I'm thinking about it. I mean, obviously I'm not questioning the anti-Muslim and anti pretty-much-all-religion-but-especially-Islam-and-Jeudeuism-for-obvious-reasons thing, but...blacks have been part of western society for a bit, I guess. I don't know. Maybe their genes changed."

"Pan-Africanist is pretty pure black."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"..."

Homonat shifts closer and twines her fingers through his. Nazi's skin crawls. "Please don't touch me."

She reluctantly lets go.

"...Sorry," Nazi mutters, so quiet he isn't sure Homonat heard him.

"No," Homonat says, "It's okay."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Nazi counts seconds. Looks back at the ceiling. Humid summer air clings to his skin and makes everything a little sticky. His hair is tangled. Gross. Breathe in, breathe out. Nazi reaches his hand out towards Homonat and threads them together.

"Good night," Homonat whispers.

"...Night."

(He doesn't fall asleep. He keeps on thinking about Homonat being a woman, and Conservative reluctantly calling her a man, and Pan-Africanist cooking dinner every night, and Pan-Africanist supposedly being 'less violent' than him, and—

His head hurts.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaa, I'm so happy to introduce the nationalists! they're such a bunch of dysfunctional idiots together. I really, really hope you liked my characterizations and don't think they're too ooc.  
> As you can probably see, this chapter marks a definite change in pace and somewhat of structure and tone. I hope it was still enjoyable. 
> 
> As usual, I eat up comments like dopamine candies, so don't hesitate in leaving one!


	4. sigh. will also title this later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad times, bad decisions--it gets somewhat complicated. The doesn't make much sense. 
> 
> (No Idea what to put as a summery here. just read it fam.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sigh. as usual, keep in mind the tags.

**Twenty One.**

So he gets antsy. He gets irritated and easily annoyed, he gets uncomfortable and on-edge. He gets angry and defensive and snappy, even when there's no one attacking him. Because Moderate ( _boss—coworker—friend?_ ) looks at them worriedly all time, because Homonat ( _coworker—friend—best friend?_ ) is a tranny, because Pan-Africanist ( _coworker—friend?_ )is black, because Conservative ( _coworker—mentor—friend?_ ) who he considers reasonable, disagrees with him on the race issue and calls Homonat a _he_.

So. Yeah. Nazi acts like a fucking asshole. More than usual. (Yes. He recognizes it. Knows it. Halfway hates himself for it. He isn't stupid.)

Conservative sighs and stops in his book-shelving. (They've recently added bookshelves to the staff lounge. Conservative seems to have made it his personal goal to stock them.) "Nazi."

Nazi crosses his arms, leans into the couch, and scowls. "What?"

Conservative turns around and looks at him chidingly. "Don't 'what' me."

"You aren't my dad and can't tell me what to do."

The other holds up a book. "Stop trying to slip this onto the shelves. It's the evil ramblings of an insane man."

"Well _maybe_ if you weren't being _manipulated_ by kikes then—"

"Nazi!" Conservative looks scandalized. "We do _not_ use slurs against our brothers and sisters. Honestly, what's been getting into you recently? You've always been impolite but..."

Homonat yawns. The steady clip of her nail clipper cuts across the silence. "He really just needs some hot gay sex."

Conservative tosses Mein Kampf into the recycling and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I am almost certainly sure that he does not need 'hot gay sex'. And you two aren't married. That's sinful."

Homonat pockets her nail clipper and takes out her polish. Forget-me-not blue. "What's a little sin in the scheme of things? I mean like, sin is kinda hot."

The Christian looks like he is developing two headaches simultaneously. "I think I'm going to help clean up the kitchen. Lord save you both."

The door clicks shut.

"Blehhh," Homonat says, "he's so _boring_. Not like you. Who _wouldn't_ want to have hot gay premarital sex with me?"

"It wouldn't be gay," Nazi says automatically. Then stops. Pauses. Realizes. "Oh shit. It wouldn't be gay. I'm not gay and it wouldn't be gay."

Homonat blinks at him. Stares. "Wait, holy shit, are you actually considering it?"

Nazi...hesitates. Homonat...she isn't bad-looking. Her jaw is sharp and her frame has a masculine sort of elegance. She isn't the picture of a woman, far from it, but she's...attractive. Acceptable. Even when Nazi thought she was a man he knew that she was attractive. But he can actually consider her now, since she's a woman. And it isn't gay.

"Err. Well. I mean. How much are you joking?"

Homonat smiles brilliantly. "Not at all!"

**Twenty Two.**

Homonat's apartment is covered in pride flags and nationalistic emblems. It's...nice. Well. A little skin-crawling, but comfortable. Homonat makes it comfortable. Nazi's stomach flutters nervously. He pushes that feeling away.

She takes his hand and leads creaks the door open to her room. Flicks on the light. Everything is clean and in place and proper. This was not a spontaneous affair. They've been arranging for a while.

Homonat squeezes his hand reassuringly. "You nervous?"

Nazi shakes his head. "Of course not. No. No. Why would I be nervous?"

She laughs quietly. "Virgin."

He flushes. Breaks their hand holding. Sits on the bed. His clothes are clean. Is he supposed to take them off himself, or let her do it, or is _she_ supposed to take off hers first? In that case, does he do it or—

Homonat is still standing there, a few feet away from the bed. A wall-mirror reflects them both. And she looks—strange. There's an unfamiliar sort of unsureness about her. Nazi has never seen Homonat like this, gaze towards the side, slight bite to her lips, fingers threaded tightly into each other. Homonat is always, _always_ casually confident.

"...Homonat?" No response. "Homer?"

"Yeah?" She still doesn't meet his eyes. Fuck. Did he say something, do something?

"Ah. Well. Are you...?"

She shifts a bit. I'm fine. I—just. Just." Nazi waits for her to continue. She struggles to find the words.

"Just...?"

"Just—don't make comments about my body or gender," Homonat says, "Just not tonight. Please."

Nazi has never heard Homonat ask for something so genuinely. So vulnerably. Never heard Homonat say please. Never seen Homonat like this. And he...doesn't like it. And Nazi—Nazi has thought a lot of things, has wanted to do a lot of things, has wanted to murder on more than one occasion, but he isn't, wouldn't...doesn't want a partner in bed to feel uncomfortable. Doesn't want Homonat to feel badly with him.

A beat.

"Yeah," Nazi says. "yeah. That's fine. I won't. It's okay."

"Okay," Homonat repeats.

"Okay," Nazi confirms.

Homonat smiles smally. "Thanks."

"It's fine. No big deal."

The other straightens tall, kicks off her high heels, and straddles Nazi down onto the bed. The uncertainty of just a few seconds prior is gone. Now it's all smooth confidence and sharp eyes. Nails trail down the side of his neck. Nazi flushes.

"Oh you're so _cute_ ," Homonat coos, voice masculine, and Nazi can _feel_ his blood pooling. He turns his head away, which only exposes his neck. Lips kiss down the skin.

"Wait," he says—squeaks, really, embarrassing as it is. Homonat pauses and glances questioningly at him. "We should, um, get properly on the bed, right? Center?" This position is a little awkward.

Homonat laughs. "Sure sure."

So they recenter. And Homonat kisses up his stomach and nips at his ears, and is all sharp and confident and still so _considerate_. And Nazi yelps and squeaks and makes sounds that he didn't know he _could_ make. It's really different than porn. There's another person, here. Homonat's touch is firm and unbearably experienced. Nazi hesitantly kisses back, touches down the other's chest. Makes no comment on the scars. And—

It's...actually appealing, to imagine Homonat with the full body of a man. _Fully_. Naturally. Nazi tries to ignore that, though. He focuses instead on the masculine tone of Homonat's voice, and the flatness of her chest, and the sensations she gives him.

It makes him want to cry in a good way. An _embarrassing_ way. Homonat tells him he's cute. He just whimpers.

And it's nice. It's good. It feels fine, and well, but—

with the most feminine parts of her...

it's a little gross. A little unattractive. A little repulsing. And he doesn't say anything, and it isn't the worst thing ever, but—

Well.

**Twenty Two.**

So, maybe he doesn't like woman. Physically.

**Twenty Two.**

Homonat asks him if he wants to do it again. He declines and doesn't know how to explain that it was a little gross, and calls her a slur instead. She wilts. He doesn't apologize.

So maybe he's gay.

Fuck.

**Twenty Two.**

So his best friend's a tranny, and his other friend is black, and he's gay. A fag.

What the fuck.

**Twenty Two.**

He was unpleasant before, now he reckons himself downright unbearable. Nazi finds opportunities to slip slurs into his sentences, snidely remarks on race at every chance, and stands in the kitchen door monologues about racial science until Pan-Africanist temporarily bans him from the kitchen. He comments on Homonat's makeup and feminine tendencies and tells her she can't even _properly_ pretend to be a man. He—

"Nazi," Pan-Africanist says, voice low and disapproving and firm. "Nazi stop. You're being a fucking asshole."

Nazi crosses his arms and taps his boot against the tiled kitchen floor. It makes a clear sound, if a little covered by the simmering a frying and bubbling all around them. "Why?"

"You're hurting Homonat."

"Oh _no_ ," Nazi says, "I'm hurting her _feelings?_ I could—"

"Look at him."

Nazi looks at Homonat. She—oh.

Oh she kind of looks like she's going to cry. Her shoulders are hunched. She doesn't meet his eyes. The words die on Nazi's tongue. His insults have never impacted her this much before, right? Of course not. Maybe—maybe it was because they became so involved. Got so close. Oh. Yeah. That makes sense. Fuck. But—

"It's alright," Homonat mutters.

Pan-Africanist frowns harder and shifts closer to her. Protectively. Gently. The white kitchen light shines brightly on them both. It illuminates the quiver of Homonat's lips, threads silver on Pan-Africanist's black dreads, the concern in his expression. Homonat's expression isn't degenerate. Pan-Africanist isn't acting black. And—

Nazi feels all of a sudden rooted in place. Struck. Nauseous. He's so fucking sick with himself. What the hell is he doing? What has he been _doing?_

( _Race realism, anti-degeneracy, eugenics is natural and normal. These people aren't natural or normal or civilized and they'll erode civilization. They're degenerate and vile_ _and akin to a virus. W_ _ho cares if the truth hurts people's feelings?_ )

( _Except that doesn't sound right any longer._ )

( _Hah._ )

A bell chimes lightly in the distance. A customer.

"I'll get that that," Nazi says, feeling shaky, and turns heel.

**Twenty Two.**

He doesn't slip Homonat an apology note, even though he thinks about it. He does, however, stop pushing so hard.

**Twenty Two.**

Ancap waltzes in, late-spring, no prior notice, spinning a pen around his fingers, face taken by a white-toothed smile. His shiny suit reflects gold under the bright lights. "How's my lovely thirty third branch doing?"

Libertarian walks in after him, very tired expression. "Boss, this is the thirty sixth branch."

Ancap pauses, shrugs uncaringly. "Details details! So, how are my dearest employees faring? Well, I hope! Considering I've taken the time from my busy schedule to check in."

Nazi glances around. It's after-hours. The others are in the back. Going through financial work and recounting firearms. He's been left to finish up with cleaning the storefront. "...Uh. Is there something you need..?"

Libertarian sighs deeply. "We're only here because Ancap has meetings in this city tomorrow, arrived early, and got bored. Most of you haven't met him outside pictures, right? Don't worry too much."

"I'm very friendly!" Ancap confirms. "Na—White Identitarian! I see you're still working here! Settle in well?"

"It's...fine." Nazi digs his nails into his palms. Thinks of Homonat and Pan African. "Thanks for recruiting me." It's a strange thing to say. This is organized crime, after all. And Nazi is bound by shady contract and seemingly perpetual debt that never climbs too large but always stays.

Ancap tilts his head at him. Nazi's skin pricks. "Interesting. Still a fashie?"

"...I think so," says Nazi. "yeah. I mean. Yes."

"Oh _fascinating_ ," Ancap says, striding over and swinging onto a table. Nazi scowls. He just cleaned that one. "Why are you unsure?"

"I'm not—well, I—" Nazi cuts himself off. That isn't professional at all. What is he trying to verbalize? Breathe in, breathe out. Cheap cleaning product. "What...how do you see intrinsic identity?"

Nazi isn't really sure why he's asking Ancap. But the man has an air about him, something eye-catching and capable. He embodies simultaneously the moral depravity of modernity _and_ the loud confidence that Nazi wants to desperately to wield. And he is...a stranger, impartial to Nazi's personal life.

Ancap hums, head leaning on one of his hands, long nails tap-tap-tapping on the edge of his shades. "What is there to consider? Intrinsic identity only bears significant weight if you let it. That...hah. Nazi, I recruited you, but do you think that means I care in the slightest for your ideology? Did you take that as a sign that I have any inclination towards your dreadful beliefs?"

Nazi scowls. The other didn't have to phrase it like that. "As a white man you have a duty to—"

"Duty this, duty that," Ancap flicks his hand. "My only duty is for myself. I refuse to be bound and defined by arbitrary characteristics."

"It isn't _arbitrary_ ," Nazi hisses, "it determines your _culture_ , your _heritage_ , your—"

" _Please_ ," Ancap says, shifting his legs a bit. "I'll pick my own culture—if I pick one in the first place. Culture is a commodity! Arbitrary identity is a marketing tool! There's really not more to it."

"But there are _inseparable biological_ _qualities_ that—"

Ancap tsks. "You say that, but do you even believe it to be so anymore?"

 _Yes_ , Nazi wants to say, but he thinks of Homonat, and thinks of Pan-Africanist, and thinks of himself, and the words die in his throat. Their rot tastes like acid and nausea.

"Hah." Ancap smiles condescendingly. Tilts his head toward Libertarian. "Poor thing. So caught in identity. I almost feel bad for him."

"Uhuh," says Libertarian. "I really don't think it's that funny."

Ancap pouts. _Pouts_. "Aww, dear, don't—"

The staff room door opens. Nazi glances over. Moderate looks wide-eyed. "...Boss?"

Ancap slides off the table, hard-bottomed shoes tapping against the tiles. "Moderate! Wonderful to see you I was just talking with the Identitarian here. Say, why don't you tell me about the happenings around here? Maybe...an uptick in firearms recently? Oh! Not here, of course. The back room, yes? Wonderful!"

The man easily strides to Moderate, wraps a hand around his shoulder, and sets them around. Pause. Ancap cranes his head around towards Nazi. Lifts his shades up, just a little. The capitalists eyes are a deep, startling green. They glitter.

 _Good luck_ , he seems to say.

And then the moment is over, and Ancap disappears behind the door, and Nazi feels restlessly unsatisfied. Balls his hand into a first. He—

He couldn't say yes.

**Twenty Two.**

"Hey," Nazi says, feeling a bit nervous.

Conservative hums. Looks up from his book. "Yeah?"

"You uh...remember on the camping trip?"

"I remember the camping trip."

"When me and Pan-Africanist were arguing," Nazi says, "you mentioned something about someone who talks a lot about black crime statistics, right?"

Because Pan-Africanist...he's an anecdote. He's one case. Nazi isn't—isn't going to be persuaded by _one case_.

Conservative's whole face brightens. "Yes! My good friend Black Conservative!"

"...Right," Nazi says, "what's he like?"

"Basically normal Conservative except people can't call him racist for having his head on straight."

"Huh."

"He really _does_ drone on and on about black crime statistics. More than you, sometimes." Conservative folds down a corner of his page and closes the book. "Do you want to talk to him? I can arrange something."

"...Yeah," Nazi says, "yeah. Okay. Sure. Thanks."

**Twenty Two.**

Black Conservative is a sharp-looking man in an intelligent-looking suit. When they meet, he sticks his hand out in professional manner. Even though they're just going for lunch.

"James, right? Christian told me about you."

"...And you're Black Conservative."

The other nods. "But you can just call me Michael. I'm really tired of people telling me I'm not a real black person for not adhering to leftist politics." Nazi furrows his brows. Black Conservative hands him a menu. "Honestly, it shouldn't be so controversial a statement to say that what the black community really needs is more policing of violent crime, less of drug, better family structure, and to stop blaming our damn problems or white privilege."

"...Uhhuh," says Nazi. He is trying very hard to not make a racist comment. He promised Conservative he'd keep it entirely civil.

They make their orders. Black Conservative speaks, and Nazi asks small questions when he feels he has to, and...

Black Conservative's explanation for black crime statistics admittedly makes a lot more sense than race realism.

Well fuck.

**Twenty Two.**

So, Nazi goes from white supremacist _and_ nationalist to just a regular white nationalist. Because...okay. Maybe some of the racial science was a bit off, and maybe he shouldn't trust that kind of thing—but it still remains true that mixing blood muddies waters! It dilutes heritage! It makes ones identity weaker. Races are better apart. With their own people. Without having to clash with each other. Separate but equal!

At least, that's what he tells himself.

Nazi still feels unsure about it. All of it. It shakes the worldview that he's been holding since before he graduated _high school_.

He goes onto 4chan. /pol/. The page loads up. He blinks. Feels a strange sense of...something. How long has it been since he's went on /pol/? A month? Two? He's...mostly just been passively on YouTube. Fuck, how long has it been since he's entered a proper _chatroom?_

He can't even remember. Whatever.

_> Hey. Been questioning a lot of beliefs. Especially race realism and all. I think I'm a ethnonationalist now, but without the white/western(???) superiority. And I mean, there's still obviously a (((certain people))) who are born bad, and _ _IF_ _not born then raised._ _(((They))) obviously still control everything and are enacting their agenda._ _They've still done a lot of horrible things. T_ _he proof of that is insurmountable._ _But I guess I'm just questioning the 'inherent' part? And I guess I've dropped the inherent traits part for other ethnicities. Basically. I think._

_> half based_

_> based_

_> lmao, really?? you're being bought over by leftist scams?? what do you mean you dropped the OBVIOUS white superiority? That's just denying facts. Honestly, you reached this far into the truth _ _then you shouldn't be becoming a fucking pussy. We don't want half-asses anyway. Or maybe you're just a leftist plant. Or a troll. Any case, kys_

**Twenty Two.**

Nazi breathes in, breathes out. The air is a bit warm. Someone's been cranking the heating. Old books and dust and leather and fast food. The lounge room. Pan African and Homonat are playing chess at the coffee table. Homonat is very obviously trying not to scowl. (Is she losing because she's a woman or because she's just bad at chess? Or—fuck. If blacks aren't stupid, does that mean that maybe woman aren't either? Homonat doesn't even call herself a woman. What if—)

"Hey," Nazi says, feeling dreadful deja vu.

They look at him. Homonat rests her head on her hand. "Yeah?"

Nazi feels suddenly nervous. A little scared to tell Homonat and Pan-Africanist, after the responses he got online. They're both ethnonationalists. They're both based. What if they think he's become unbased? But...

No. This feels important. And they—they wouldn't. That doesn't even make logical sense. Pan-Africanist _is_ black. Homonat...Homonat is also questioning, right?

He stands up. Holds back from pacing. Clears his throat. "I think I changed my mind of some things."

"The being an asshole thing?" Pan-Africanist asks, kind of playful, but kind of not.

Nazi flushes. "I never chose to be an asshole, asshole. No, the—uh. The..." he coughs. "The white supremacy thing."

Homonat blinks at him. "Oh fuck."

"Sorry," Nazi says, "I just—just, well, I found some evidence and I thought a lot and well—I mean! Just. Just for colored people. I'm just a plain ethnonationalist with...some antisemitic characteristics now. Sorry."

"No it's okay," Homonat says, "I—I've been questioning too. I guess. I think you might be right. Fuck."

Nazi feels immeasurably relieved. Smiles hesitantly. Looks at Pan-Africanist. The man is staring at them both, weird kind of expression.

"...Pan-Africanist?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. You two—come over here." Nazi does. Homonat tiptoes over. Pan-Africanist holds out both his hands. Nazi stares. Homonat laughs and gives a high five. Oh. Nazi...hesitantly follows. His palm stings. Pan African grins and envelops them in a large hug.

It's warm.

**Twenty Two.**

(The faith he holds in his online idols is shaken. Sometimes, he feels that the trust is fractured beyond complete repair.)

(...So, trans people are supposed to be only lying. They're supposed to be the furthest left cringe degenerates things you've ever seen. They're supposed to be predators that lurk in bathroom stalls and sexually assault perfectly good people.)

(...That isn't Homonat.)

(...)

(Maybe—maybe there's more to this than Nazi thought. Maybe he's missing something. Just maybe. Homonat, she—he—they. They. Maybe he should talk to them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, can't believe Homonat would get dirty with someone that consistently calls him slurs and doesn't respect his identity at all. What a good idea, as expected from him /s
> 
> OK yeah actually, hope you liked this chapter. Some stuff happened. Black conservative--just think Thomas Sowell, basically. The culture argument&a mix of other things are pretty typical arguments made by black right wingers, at least in the USA. Anyway!! Yeah stuff happened this chapter. felt like a kinda awkward end? brief appearance from ancap & more conservative,,,,Homonat&Nxzi making terrible decisions :") I love those two haha
> 
> as usual, comments are very appreciated and they make me very happy to read.


End file.
